That evening they dined in Verne's fine dining room, waited on by a servant dressed in crisp black pants, white jacket and black bow tie. Verne was now dressed in smoking jacket and loose pants and Moroccan slippers. He had provided a similar outfit for Twain.
Earlier, while removing these items from his closet, he had stumbled over a red fez with a golden tassel that had been given him by a friend. He had never worn it. Ned saw this while waiting for Verne to supply fresh clothes for Twain. It was obvious to Verne that he was taken with it, so he gave it to the little seal, fastened it over the metal box on Ned's head. Ned looked rather suave in the fez, like a seal of great importance and wealth with a harem.
With his stitches in place, Ned forgave them for holding him down. The pain had passed. And besides, he had a neat as hell red hat.
Ned was placed in a portable Victorian-style tub with fresh water. Next to it was a long low table on which sat bowls of fresh sardines, fish oil, and wine. And, of course, a napkin. Floating on the water was a rubber duck toy. At first, Ned resented it, but discovered it squeaked when he squeezed it, and he eventually found it comforting. He balanced it on his nose and made seal sounds.
The servant, Passepartout, who had been with Verne for years, appeared to be totally unperturbed by an injured seal near the dining table in a tub with a rubber duck. He looked as if he had seen it all, and then some. He poured the seal's wine with the same panache he poured all wine.
Upon completion of pouring, Ned took his pencil and pad from the little table and wrote: THANK YOU, KIND SIR.
In French, Passepartout told Ned he was quite welcome. Then, said the same in English.
Verne thanked Passepartout, and the servant went away, saying, "Very good, monsieur."
"When we finish," Verne said, "we will retire to the study for cigars."
Ned took up his pad, wrote, and held up what he had written:
NO THANK YOU. SMOKING IS BAD FOR YOU.
"Very well," Verne said. "Then, for you, smoked herring. Will that be sufficient?"
Ned wrote again, held up his pad on which he had written:
SMOKED HERRING IS NOT BAD FOR YOU. HOW MUCH SMOKED HERRING?
"A lot," Verne said. "And tomorrow, I have another present for you. Something I designed some time ago."
Ned, in anticipation of the herring, ate his sardines and drank his wine, dozed in his tub, dreamed of female seals with long eye-lashes. From time to time the sound of the duck being squeaked could be heard.